


If You Ever Did Believe

by Sasskarian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, Slow Burn, how do I tag this?, it's a love story okay, let's save the world and fall in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:43:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasskarian/pseuds/Sasskarian
Summary: A past riddled with scars, a giant hole in the sky, a religion that hates everything she is wanting her to save it. And a council of advisers each with their own agendas. What’s a mage to do when Thedas is intent on putting her in the middle of a fight definitely not her own?Save the bloody world, apparently.[Formerly known as Love Story of the Age, ft. Isera Lavellan and Cullen Rutherford]





	1. Where to Start

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, at long last, the beginning of the rewrites for Love Story. I promised I was working on them and I was. It just... went from a bunch of one-shots to a chaptered fic. 
> 
> Beta'd by theherocomplex and aban-asaara

Chapter 1

***

Isera * Cullen * Isera

***

“There are people _dying,_ ” Isera repeated slowly, as if she could make her advisers understand what she'd seen. As if giving her memories voice might lift some of their weight in her heart. “We couldn’t even _get_ to Redcliffe because of the fighting.”

Three days of being stuck on a horse, only to have to turn around after three skirmishes— their first mission to the Hinterlands had been a remarkable experiment in failure. Isera had learned her skills at the hands of the best of her clan, had fought alone for years, and yet the shock of tripping over Varric and accidentally hitting Cassandra with a ball of ice had made their first fight a near loss.

_Some saviors_ , Varric had laughed afterward, _staggering around like baby nugs_.

Isera stared at the map with a mixture of guilt and displeasure twisting in her throat. Too many frightened, pleading eyes had looked up at them as they rode by for her to give up, but damned if she knew where to start: Scout Harding had done her best to note places where the fighting was the worst, but the marks on the map were depressingly close together with no discernible pattern.

Leliana’s gaze remained fixed on the map in front of them, while Cassandra braced her hands on the table, shoulders tightening with every awkward moment— their first excursion had not been any easier on the Seeker than it had on Isera. Josephine’s small hand covered her mouth, but her sharp eyes wouldn’t meet Isera’s.

Only her general was looking at her.

“Commander, please.” She softened her voice, falling back on the gentle coaxing tone that always earned her a smile or accomodation from her brother or _mamala._ “The fighting between the rogue templars and the mages has to _end_. Refugees are being slaughtered. And those that aren’t dying from the violence are either freezing or starving.”

“That’s the nature of war, Herald,” he replied, just as softly. She could read the pained empathy in his face, the understanding, but he didn’t budge on his position. “There will always be those caught between the factions, and they will always be the ones who suffer most.”

Isera shoved her hands inside the sleeves of her borrowed robe to keep from clenching them, turning on her heel and pacing the length of the room. After a full circuit, she was no closer to rebutting Cullen’s statement or finding a solution that wouldn't beggar the already strapped resources.

_It’s such a small room, to see us deciding the fate of Thedas,_ she thought, fingers digging into her elbows; the discomfort helped ground her from the prickle of magic rattling the chains of her willpower. _Plain and unassuming, like it’s not witnessing world-shaking secrets._ Isera shot a look at her advisors and began a second circuit of pacing, grappling with the hot anger-- righteous or not-- that wanted to break apart her composure. Losing her temper in a room vibrating with distrust would serve no one, and might even make things worse.

_“Breathe, da’len,” Deshanna whispered. “Don’t fight it. It is part of you. You can master it.”_

_“It’s so big,” Isera whispered back, her hands trembling as she fought her instincts, as she backed away from the colors and sensations trying to overwhelm her. The sea of mana in her heart churned, restless, screaming at her to take its reins. “It hurts!”_

Finally, she turned back to face her advisors, steeling her face. “There has to be _something_ we can do for them. Food? Blankets?”

“We can’t afford it right now,” Josephine admitted. “With the Chantry having denounced us before we could do much of anything, our resources are stretched thin. I’ve run the numbers twice.”

“And how are we supposed to get the people behind us if we do nothing to aid them?” Isera countered, fighting to keep her voice even as waves of heat washed over her from head to toe. “Are we to do the same as the Chantry and hole up, ignoring their cries for help while we bicker amongst ourselves?”

“The Chantry—” Cullen began, but Isera cut him off, slamming her hands on the table. The mild voice, the quietly-disappointed reactions, the _helplessness_ to protect the innocents who were looking to them with hope and fear— it all crested in a fever pitch, her will shattering under the onslaught of rising temper.

“No! Your precious _Chantry_ is half the cause of this!” she shouted, the heat simmering under her skin bursting free and crawling up her arms in thin, sinuous ropes. Cassandra jerked back, hand automatically going for her sword. Smoke curled upwards where her palms rested on the wood, and her chest heaved as she fought for breath. “You Andrastians and your _hatred_ of magic did this!”

_“Calm, da’len.” Deshanna’s hand rested on the crown of her head, a chill seeping down from her fingers to combat the fire Isera struggled to contain in her hands; it was soothing, helping her regain her balance as she tried to leash the magic. “You must make your heart still and calm.”_

_Still and calm._ Isera clamped her lips shut and focused on inhaling through her nose, each hard-won lungful loosening the cords in her arms. _It’s not like they’re trying to execute me._

_Yet, anyway._

Too slow, the flames dwindled, sinking back into her flesh as gracefully as they’d appeared, the only proof of their existence being the blackened lines in the sleeves of her borrowed robe. When she lifted her hands and tucked them into one another, two small, perfect outlines were burned into the wood.

They still smoldered even when she raised her eyes.

Josephine had backed away from the table, eyes wide and alarmed. The letterboard in her hand trembled, but she took a deep breath and began flipping through pages, muttering to herself about rearranging supply lines. Leliana hadn’t flinched, hadn’t even looked up until now. Isera felt a shiver try to work its way up her spine as those blue eyes pinned her to the spot as surely as an arrow— there was understanding in Leliana’s gaze, a kindred sort of agreement.

And an unspoken warning that if Isera became a danger, being the supposed Herald of Andraste wouldn’t save her. She couldn’t say for certain if that was comforting or frightening.

Cassandra was the first to recover, to straighten her back and firm up her shoulders like the soldier— and leader— they required her to be, despite the lingering remnants of magic that bounced around the room, invisible to everyone but Isera. “Well,” she started, matter-of-factly.

Whatever was to come after that statement, Isera didn’t hear. Her eyes locked on her general, who’d gone bone-pale and still at her flare of magic. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side, the only other motion besides the muscle ticking in his jaw.

_Oh, no…_ she thought, looking at his eyes. They were wide and unblinking, fixed on the burns in the table as he took breath after slow breath, face too blank and motionless to be natural. _I know that look. I’ve worn that look myself._

_He’s afraid._

“Cullen?” Cassandra asked, turning to him. Everyone jumped when he jerked in response, the grating squeal of his armor obscenely loud in the silence that had fallen. He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, some color returning to his skin even as he moved towards the door, giving Isera a wide berth. Isera avoided Cassandra’s eyes, hands safely tucked back into her robes; as Cullen stepped past her, her shoulders hunched as she tried to make herself as small as physically possible.

He still flinched when she moved.

“Forgive me,” he muttered as he slipped through. “I need a moment.”

***

_I am in Haven. I am in the Chantry._

_I am not there._

Eyes blinded by memory, Cullen darted into the nearest dark space he could find, pressing his forehead against the cool, damp stones as he fought the urge to claw at his skin again, to _rip_ the filth out. With every breath, the sick smell of burnt flesh, of sulfur and blood, flooded his nose. There was a howl warring for space in his chest, the same raw, pained sound Desire had drawn out of him so many times in those weeks before Surana returned. It had made the demons laugh, he remembered, and the memory looped in his head until he felt the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. The old scratches on his arms ached, burning reminders of the nightmares he’d failed to forget.

_I am not there._

He repeated that sentence to himself until the shaking in his hands stopped. His chest ached and his breath came in harsh bursts, each one setting his empty lungs on fire. By the time he stopped trembling and the phantom smell of the prison he’d been kept in faded, sweat rolled down his back and glued his leather underarmor to his skin.

_Maker help me, I have to go back in there and face her._

His first sight of the Herald had been her bearing down on the battlefield, a stormcloud rolling across the land, and all he’d been able to think was that she was going to get herself killed. Exhausted, wind-burned, covered with demon ichor, and still she had hesitated only a moment. Despite Cassandra at her back, Isera had charged forward with a staff in hand— and even Cullen had admitted that before their arrival, the battle had looked grim. Amazingly, not only had the girl not died, but she had turned the tide of battle in their favor.

Strange that it had been easy to forget what sort of power lurked under that delicate facade until they were forced to confront it.

Cullen swallowed past the lump in his throat and lifted his head, finally able to open his eyes without seeing that purple veil and the misshapen lumps that had once been friends— only to find that he stood trembling in the narrow passage down to Haven’s dungeon. A laugh tore itself from his throat, too loud and bitter and scraping like something broken, as he thought about the absurdity of finding comfort from one prison inside the hall to another.

***

“Herald?”

Isera looked up, blinking in the sudden light, and, she saw Cassandra in the now-open doorway of the war room, holding a candle. Cassandra paused, then came forward slowly, setting the light on the corner of the table, next to where a controlled fire was— had been.

_Huh. It must have burnt out._

“Did I disturb you?” Isera asked, turning her eyes back to the map of Thedas. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something, some obvious answer to their problem. “I apologize. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor I,” Cassandra answered, sounding as tired as Isera felt. “Did you want to speak about—”

“No,” was snapping out of her mouth before she could stop it, sharp and hot. “I— no. Not right now.” She couldn’t handle the guilt of remembering their first skirmishes on top of what had happened earlier.

Though the fear on his face had been tightly leashed by the time Cullen returned to the war room, the clenched fists held stiff behind his back and short, clipped notes of his voice belied his terror regardless. He’d so carefully avoided looking at her, the way her clan had when she was a child, and somehow, it stung the same.

“As you wish,” the Seeker agreed, readily enough. She turned and dug through a thick stack of parchment, pulling out a map of Redcliffe and sliding it over to Isera. Neither woman bothered looking at the seared handprints as they bent over their work, and Isera found herself grateful for Cassandra’s no-nonsense attitude. It made the afternoon’s outburst seem smaller, less shameful. “It feels like we’re missing something.”

“That’s why I can’t sleep,” Isera admitted, scrubbing her hands over her face and grimacing at the dry, sour feeling in her mouth. “What _time_ is it?”

“Close to dawn,” a new voice answered. The two women groaned, Isera exhausted and Cassandra bristling, as Varric stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He started to say something but caught sight of the handprints seared into the table and whistled in appreciation. “Someone lost their temper.”

Isera flushed and quickly rolled her sleeves up to hide the burns.

“What do you want, Varric?” Cassandra asked, the usual derision muted in her voice; Isera put it down to the lateness of the hour.  Still, she thought if Cassandra had fur, it'd be standing on end as Varric came closer. “Some of us are trying to _work._ ”

“Now, Seeker,” Varric began with a smile, spreading his hands. If the gesture was meant to look reassuring, Isera thought he failed. Endearingly so, but still failed. “I’m only here to help.”

“You’re here to cause trouble,” Cassandra muttered, shaking her head. Isera watched as her shoulders tightened and she made some notes on a report, somehow managing to turn clerical work into a silent threat. “How the Champion didn’t strangle you years ago, I will never know.”

“I’m charming,” he answered simply, bringing himself to the table with a few steps to smirk at her. “And she couldn’t find anyone else to cheat at Wicked Grace.”

“Ugh.” Cassandra rolled her eyes.

Isera couldn’t stop her chuckle in time, earning herself a grin from Varric. “Are you going to toss him out?” she asked Cassandra, trying to control her expression as the Seeker glowered at them both.

Watching the two of them snipe at each was at times as amusing as it was annoying, though she half-suspected that Varric sometimes played the ham on purpose. In her short two weeks with them, she’d noticed more than once that Varric slipped into the self-appointed role of caretaker with ease. At least in this case; Creators, Andraste, _whoever_ was listening knew the ragtag group of Conclave survivors needed someone who wasn't hopeless prodding them into taking care of themselves.

“Tch.” The Seeker grabbed another map of the Hinterlands and spread it out next to the other, drumming her fingers on the table irritably. “Not worth the effort,” she finally growled, clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t there.

The three of them worked, heads together, as the candle burned, half-murmured musings and rejected suggestions filling the hours. Finally, Isera leaned back, the joints in her neck popping as she stretched. From the sounds of the Sisters outside, dawn had broken over Haven some time ago, and a new day was well underway. The rise and fall of people singing the Chant of Light provided a mostly-pleasant background as the silence that had fallen between them grew heavy.

“You’re the writer, Varric,” Isera said, still staring at the stones of the ceiling. Her vision swam as she yawned, feeling a decade older than when she’d awoken in the dungeon below their feet. “If this were one of your stories, what would we be missing?”

Varric’s answer was as immediate as it was wry.

“Subtlety.” He leaned forward, pulling out a small pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and settling them on his nose. Isera caught Cassandra looking at them, her expression somewhere between surprise and mild annoyance. “But if I were writing this shitshow? I’d use a convenient plot device.” He hummed tunelessly, running his blunt fingers over the quickly-copied patterns from Harding’s map before he continued.

“In Kirkwall, when the mages fled the Gallows,” he said, voice quiet and thoughtful, “the first ones out carried with them what they could and stashed them along the routes for others. Anything useful— potions, herbs, old staves, rods. Hell, we found one poor sod with half an alchemy set in his bag, along with lyrium dust.” Varric shook his head. “Fool only made it a few blocks before a templar heard the song on him and cut him down.”

“What does that have to do with the fighting in Redcliffe?” Cassandra asked, pressing on the bridge of her nose before resting her forehead on her hands, looking as exhausted as Isera felt. “We are far removed from Kirkwall. And it has begun to settle, without Meredith at its helm.”

“And yet the effects rippled from there,” he countered. “Like a boulder tossed in a lake.”

Isera blinked, a _ringing_ echoing in her head like she was on the verge of mastering a new spell. “We may be far from _Kirkwall_ ,” she murmured, grabbing a handful of map pins from the container on the end of the table, “but not from human nature.”

“Aren’t you an elf, Ashes?” Varric asked pointedly, leaning back in his chair— when had he pulled up a chair?— and folding his arms over his chest. “Pointed ears, glowing eyes, _not_ human _,_ all that?”

“Well, yes, but—” Isera tilted her head and stared at him. “Ashes?”

“I should have warned you.” Cassandra roused herself enough to glare at the dwarf sitting across from them. “He has a terrible habit of giving out,” she shuddered, “ _nicknames._ ”

Varric shrugged. “Fire. Temper. Ashes. Makes sense to me.” He looked over the rims of his spectacles at her and _smiled_ in a way that made her feel like she was being led by the nose. “Weren’t you on the verge of some sort of revelation?”

“Right!” Isera shook her head to clear it, then began pinning an iron sword for each of the major clusters of fighting Harding had noted. “One thing about my clan— and Varric’s Kirkwall story— is prudence. Our hunters will keep things in areas of the forest in case of emergencies.” She caught Varric smiling at her, looking entirely too pleased with himself— and with her, like she was doing something clever. “Like what Varric’s imaginary mages did. Passing things on for later use.”

“Imaginary?” He sighed and laced his hands behind his head, that smirk never quite disappearing. “Ashes, you _wound_ me. That was a perfectly good fake story.”

“Caches!” Cassandra stood abruptly, almost knocking her chair over and startling Varric upright. “If they’re moving around the Hinterlands like this, forming a stronghold the way Harding suspects, they must have supplies and caches.”

“I bet they’re using some sort of marking system that another mage would be able to see,” Isera said, a flicker of excitement washing away some of the exhaustion. “That _I_ could see. We’re going back to the Hinterlands.” When the two of them looked at her, Isera smiled, something satisfied and sharp coiling through her. “And this time, we’re not going to be driven out.”


	2. Ash and Burnt Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cassandra leaned against the doorframe, studying him with narrowed eyes and he resisted the urge to pull at the neck of his armor. Scrutiny often left an itch under his skin._

Chapter 2

***

Cullen * Isera * Cullen

***

“Commander.”

Cullen turned from the reports papering his desk and squinted against the light. When he shot to his feet, he had to resist slapping a fist to his chest in salute, pulling the unconscious gesture short as he remembered that he now technically outranked the Seeker who’d recruited him. Cassandra’s mouth turned up in a slight smile as the chair he’d been sitting in clattered to the floor of his cabin.

“Lady— Seeker Cassandra,” he said, feeling awkward and much too large in the small room. “I was unaware you had returned.”

“We rode hard to get here, but the Herald wanted to arrive ahead of Master Dennet and the veritable horde of horses he’s bringing.” Cassandra leaned against the doorframe, studying him with narrowed eyes and he resisted the urge to pull at the neck of his armor. Scrutiny often left an itch under his skin. “How are you feeling?”

_Like I’m dying a day at a time. Like I’m lost in the woods._

_Like my veins were once full and are now hollow._

Tempted to say as much, Cullen looked away and took far too long straightening the reports into a stack. “I am surviving,” he said at last, quiet; there was a wealth of confessions locked in those three words, things even he couldn't untangle. The stoic Seeker, fine woman that she was, had little chance in doing the same. “I knew it would not be an easy task when I decided.”

“And still,” Cassandra agreed, crossing her arms and doing an impressive job of pretending she wasn't pleased. Cullen felt his face flush, knew that his cheeks were probably staining in that regrettable, boyish blush he never quite outgrew; Maker only knew how many times that tell had given him away as a recruit. “Here you are.”

_Away from Kinloch. Away from Kirkwall. Where I may be able to make a difference for the better instead of— instead of—_

He drew a sharp breath, ignoring the siren call of nails dragging across skin; he’d come too far to resort to that to deal with his memories. “Here I am.”

***

Isera stood shivering in the cold winter air, her skin steaming in the fading light.

The weight of her staff in her hands should have felt good— wielding a staff for years had taught her the beauty and lure of sparring, of running through forms and fighting her own shadow. It had centered her, grounded her, like little else when her magic was an unknown raging through her. Even after she learned the moods of her mana, after she embraced it and no longer feared it, her staff had called to her, soothed her.

Now, she could feel it pulsing in her hands, a harmony to the muscles of her shoulders and back twanging from use, but it gave her no comfort. She’d bled off some of the fury under her skin by heating enough water for most of Haven— to the delight of the villagers, no less— but tension still curled through her, tight and painful. As the sun had begun to fade from the sky, two different scouts had approached her, as well as Cassandra; each of them had backed off after a particularly vicious strike on the training dummy she’d been beating into the ground.

Isera lunged, whipping the staff around her wrist and slamming it into the straw-filled burlap, the crack of the wood satisfying but hollow. She wanted _flesh_ under her weapon, wanted to pour out her pain and rage so that it would stop eating her alive. Despite the long ride back to Haven, her companions had been too quiet, worried gazes turned to her as if she’d crumble. They had it all wrong. It wasn’t fear or sorrow that sealed her lips, it was _anger_.

The smell of ash and burnt flesh still filled her nose, even such a distance away from that awful place. It had crawled with terror, with devastation and pain, the song of death all but _screaming_ at her—

“Cassandra said I might find you here.” The voice she least wanted to hear floated over her shoulder as her staff clunked against the wood again. “I must have missed you at the gates.”

“I’ve been gone for most of the month, Commander,” she gritted through her teeth, seeing him from the corner of her eye; the fact that he was watching made her feel _evaluated_ , and so she made certain her next strike was flawless. “If you only missed me at the gates, I’m doing something wrong.”

The joke fell flat and hard between them, their last interaction still taking up too much space for levity. As she watched him from lowered lids, she wondered if he thought she might lunge at him like a rabid beast.

Cullen circled around to her right, looking at the training dummy with a raised eyebrow— it looked significantly worse for wear than it had a few hours before. “Good thing these are easy enough to repair,” he murmured, not quite smiling. “There may be more straw on the snow than left in the thing.”

Isera’s face heated at that, and it annoyed her that she couldn’t tell if it was pride or embarrassment. The longer she stayed still, the more she felt the chill of the approaching night.

“I came to check on you,” Cullen admitted, his hand scrubbing across the back of his neck. “See how you… were. Cassandra—”

“Well, Commander,” she interrupted, bracing her forehead against the wood of her staff as she shivered again. Sweat ran down her face, drying into thin trails of frost as she closed her eyes. “As you can see, I’m perfectly fine. Our resident Seeker can stop worrying.”

Cullen snorted, returning to her side. “Yes, and when you drop dead of exhaustion and exposure, I can tell her that saw you last and you said you were fine, so I left you to freeze.” His brows furrowed as he looked her over again. “Might I speak with you a moment?”

***

 _For talking, we’re not doing a lot of it_.

The walk to Cullen’s quarters had been silent, and more than a little awkward, broken only once when he’d caught her elbow and murmured, “Careful,” when she slipped on some ice. Once inside the single-room shack— cabin was too generous a word— the Commander moved from thing to thing, restless and pacing. To her annoyance, her legs were too shaky for her to remain standing, so she’d grudgingly taken a seat at his table, feeling dwarfed by his armored bulk.

“I see Pellane and Charter are getting along as well as ever,” she offered, hoping to break the tension in the room.

Cullen turned away from the fire, brows lowered in confusion. “What?”

“Two of Leliana’s scouts. Pellane and Charter. They tend to clash a bit.”

“Oh.” He returned to the fire, hissing and shaking his hand as he poked at it. “I can mention it to her.”

Isera rolled her eyes, fingers tapping with impatience. _If he doesn’t like being alone with me,_ she thought with a frown, _why did he drag me here?_ She toyed with the edge of her robes, damp now that the frost was melting, finding a rough patch in the weave and picking at it until it began to unravel.

“Do you need some help?” she finally asked. “If not, I believe I’m steady enough to walk—”

“Peace, Herald.” Cullen turned, showing her two steaming mugs in his hands. “I was only making some tea. It’s cold out, and you— well, it’s cold out.” He dropped into the chair across from her, hands wrapped around his own mug, blowing gently and avoiding looking at her.

“Oh.” Surprised, she cradled the tea, almost groaning at the pleasure of the warmth seeping into her fingers. “Thank you.” The silence between them lengthened, each staring into the depths of the tea, until she took a drink.

And frowned.

“Are you ill, Commander?” Isera rolled another sip of tea around on her tongue, sifting through years of hard-learned lessons. “There’s elfroot and willowbark under the mint.”

Cullen smiled slightly and raised his own mug in an ironic salute. “You found me out. I get frequent headaches, and Adan has been kind enough to provide this. Unfortunately, it’s the only tea blend I have at the moment.” Embarrassment colored his cheeks lightly, and Isera didn’t quite catch her reassuring smile before it formed.

“It’s not unpleasant. I can recommend a few more blends that might at least give you some variety.” The cup met the table with a dull click as she set it aside. In the flickering light of his fire, she found herself studying him, the way she studied people interesting enough to sketch. It had been too long since she’d spent any real quality time with her book and pencils, and the urge to release some of the tension she’d carried for the last month was strong enough to make her fingers itch— until she remembered that her sketches had been in the belongings destroyed by the blast that landed her in this mess.

Still, cataloging features relaxed her, helped her understand the world around her, and the longer she looked, the more she found to see.

Cullen’s face was a study in contrast. He couldn’t have been much older than her twenty-eight summers, but something had carved deep lines beside his mouth and around his eyes— there were times when he seemed ancient, weighed down by something heavy. She’d seen those eyes of his in many lights but here, highlighted by fire and hooded with sleepy lids, they were the color of rich honey. _Or burnt umber, maybe. Highlights of ochre._ The observation brought her up short, made her think of the elaborate paints she’d seen only once in Wycome, far too expensive for a dalish elf without two coppers to rub together.

 _He has a surprisingly open face, for a soldier,_ she thought idly, tracing the rim of her mug as she studied him. _Proud lines but there’s fatigue and pain there. This is more than a simple headache._

His voice— low and amused— shook her from her thoughts. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No.” Isera realized she’d been staring and smiled tightly, a bit annoyed at being caught out. “But your face is interesting. I don’t have many human faces. Never found them interesting enough to collect before.”

Cullen arched a brow at that.

“Right.” She took a drink, fiddling with the mug until the handle was perfectly parallel to the edge of the table, straightening the spoon he’d provided, anything so that she didn’t have to meet that curious gaze. “We haven’t spent much time not sniping at each other. I… sketch. Portraits, landscapes, people I find interesting.” He said nothing, so she plowed ahead, tongue loosening with nerves. “I haven’t done much of it since this whole mess began— I’m rather sure my book blew up with the Conclave— but old habits are hard to break.”

“You’re an artist?” He tilted his head, curiosity written across his face.

“So Varric says.” She chuckled, the air between them finally beginning to lighten. “I say he’s full of nonsense, but then, we _are_ talking about Varric. He’s only seen quick scratches on the back of reports I’m supposed to be reading— they aren’t exactly showpieces.”

Cullen’s laugh sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t expected to find something she said entertaining, but the relieved warmth that flooded her chest helped. And, she thought as she finished her tea, if it felt a little like a bandage for the weary ache in her heart, then.

That might be okay.

***

“I apologize for the late hour,” Josephine said again as the runners brought in plates of food. “I knew conclusory meetings could take some time but—”

“Josie, it’s _fine._ ” Leliana clasped the ambassador’s hand with her own, some of her mystery softening into affection. “It’s better to wrap up our expeditions and analyze them in depth than to forge blindly ahead. This way, we can see what tactics worked and what we need to adjust in our campaign, especially in these early days.”

“Still,” Josephine murmured, but the apologetic note had receded from her voice. Isera smiled at her, soft and tired, and Cullen found himself studying the Herald as she helped Josephine move the maps and piles of reports that had accumulated during their meeting.

There was no evidence of that strange, simmering tension that he’d seen in her last week, whatever had driven her to train until she almost froze, but something was still bothering her. He knew her face— so quick, so expressive— well enough to see how distant she was. And that was unlike her. If Isera could be characterized by any one thing, it was how much she _cared_ , not just about the Inquisition or the advisers, but about the people in general.

“My lady?” He lifted a stack of books from her arms, close enough that he could see the lines of stress around her mouth. His instincts, his worry, whatever it was— whatever he was seeing clamored in his heart that something was wrong. Isera met his gaze and smiled again, and Cullen couldn’t shake the thought that his concern was plain on his face.

“I’m all right, Commander,” she whispered, fingers brushing his as she let him take the last book; he wasn’t sure if it was intention or accident, but either way, his skin seemed to burn as surely as if she’d set him on fire. “It’s been a long day.” They sat at the table as the last of the trays was settled and opened, the scent of roast and potatoes filling the room.

The last servant bowed and backed out through the door, and for a moment, things went smoothly. Leliana murmured something to Josephine that made her laugh, and Cassandra was already attacking her food with the single-minded intensity of a soldier too long un-fed.

But Isera pushed the plate away from her, looking uneasy, pale under her tan. Cullen half-rose from his seat as she stood, a silence falling over the other advisers.

“Is something wrong, Lady Lavellan?” Josephine finally asked, setting her flatware to the side with a delicate-sounding clink.

“My apologies, Josie,” Isera murmured, the back of one hand rising to her mouth as she swallowed, hard. To Cullen's eye, so familiar with the Herald’s expressions over these past weeks, she looked ready to flee. Her other hand, small and quick and strong, trembled where it rested. “I'm just not up for eating something quite so heavy. Please, if you could make sure it doesn't go to waste?”

Isera took a deep breath, something terrible and dark shuttering her eyes that Cullen was far too familiar with from his own reflection, and walked to the door after Josephine’s nod. When it opened, the sound of the nightly Chant—softened through the wood and stone— washed over them in waves as a line of the faithful filed towards the altars to pray. A cool breeze from the open Chantry doors rifled through the maps and papers with thieving fingers.

And still, Cullen couldn't pull his eyes away from his Herald as she wound her way through parishioners; each casual touch or gaze they pinned on her caused him to flinch with sympathy at the intrusion.

“I was afraid of something like this.” Cassandra sighed, a worry line appearing between her brows.

“This is something to do with the Hinterlands excursions?” Leliana asked, rolling her goblet of wine between her palms. “The cooks have noticed her reluctance to take meat since you returned,” she added by way of explanation.

Cassandra nodded, pushing her own plate away. “Redcliffe held many horrors, but one in particular hit our Lady hard.” The Seeker took a deep breath and, as Isera finally made her exit from well-wishers and worshippers, began to speak. “We came across a… hut, of sorts. Four young apostates had locked themselves within, hoping to hide from a templar force.”

Leliana hissed out a breath, causing Cullen to turn back to the table.

“It didn't work, did it?” he asked, heart pounding with bruising force inside his ribs. He knew how some of the men he'd commanded in Kirkwall would have reacted to mages making such a handy target of themselves, and when Cassandra dropped her eyes and murmured, “No, it didn't,” the puzzle pieces clicked in his head.

“The Templars set the hut on fire, burning them alive.” Cassandra's voice was hard and thin as ice, brittle in its chill. “Isera did not… take it well.”

Cullen let his eyes fall shut, clenching his hands until his nails dug into the meat of his palm. He could imagine what form ‘not well’ would take in someone like Isera.

“We dispatched them,” Cassandra continued flatly. “And when it was over, Isera asked if that was what mages really were. A threat so great, they must be slaughtered helpless and weak.” She swallowed with some difficulty, washing down the stiff words with a drink. “I did not have an answer for her.”

In the silence, Josephine's sigh was as loud and abrasive as any soldier’s colorful curses. “We should—” she began, but Cullen didn't hear the rest. Before his mind had fully caught up, he grabbed his mantle and strode from the war room, one thought ringing through his head with clarity.


	3. Hard Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Things had been nice and quiet: a few ideas laid down in his notes, Bianca gleaming in the firelight, the hum of the village quieting as night fell. All that, of course, shot to shit when the Herald of Andraste sailed over the wall with a spray of snow, splattering him head to chest hair._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been heavily beta'd by [Istrael](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Istrael/pseuds/Istrael) and [aban-asaara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara), without whom, it wouldn't exist.

***

Chapter 3

***

Varric * Cullen * Isera

***

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks, kid!” Varric swore, leaning weakly against the wall near his tent. Things had been nice and quiet: a few ideas laid down in his notes, Bianca gleaming in the firelight, the hum of the village quieting as night fell. All that, of course, shot to shit when the Herald of Andraste sailed over the wall with a spray of snow, splattering him head to chest hair.

“Sorry.” Isera shivered, eyes darting left and right as Varric brushed the snow from his hair before it could melt. “I wasn’t looking.”

Even with his heart galloping around his chest like those demon-eyed hellbeasts Dennet assured him were horses and not some nightmare from the Void, he saw the tightness of her face. To his eye—so used to evaluating people, first as a writer and then as a thief— she looked like she was going to shake apart. They’d only been back in the village for a couple of days and Isera had kept herself busy.

 _Yeah,_ a voice whispered in his head; it sounded suspiciously like Hawke’s gentle mockery, _if that’s keeping busy, I’m gonna grow horns like the bloody Arishok._

He snorted at the truth of it— since their return, Isera spent more time sprinting around Haven, sticking her hands into whatever she could, than not. Even Chuckles the friendly apostate had muttered something about it being exhausting to watch. Peace-by-exhaustion was a tactic Varric knew well: not only did he use it himself, but Hawke was the _master_ of bottling up her feelings to never see the light of day again. Probably the reason they got on so well, in truth. Both of them slapped a smirk across their face, thinking that if they just smiled bright enough, charmed hard enough, no one would bother digging past that surface expression. And yet, sometimes even a master bullshitter wanted to at least be asked—

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Varric asked quietly, settling back. “Or are you looking for a quick getaway?”

Isera didn’t say anything but her face crumpled and the small, mostly-silent inhale told him enough.

Against his better judgement— well, no. Varric’s judgement had always been fine. It was more to the fact that he never _listened_ to it when his bleeding heart got in the way. And, just like a decade ago in Kirkwall, he felt himself warming a little more towards another outcast thrust into being a hero. Isera was similar enough to Hawke that a blind fucking nug could see it: every life she couldn’t save in Kirkwall had been a personal failure, and even the better part of a decade hadn’t toughened that soft heart up much. Isera seemed cast from the same mold and, personally, Varric thought he should introduce whoever scripted their lives to Bianca’s business end.

For half a minute, he amused himself by imagining Hawke and Isera together— a terrifying thought, actually— and almost missed Isera’s whisper of, “I keep seeing those kids.”

 _Just like Hawke_. He kept the thought to himself, but gave her hand a pat, knowing all too well that before this mess was over, there’d be more casualties— and bruises on all their hearts. "Can't really blame you." Varric sighed, dragging his hand down his face. "Anyone claiming not to be shaken up by something like that is lying through their teeth."

Isera chuckled but the sound was almost mechanical, lacking any real inflection or life. "Some people can lie and lie until they don’t know what the truth is.” She sounded small, and lost, and every added, empty syllable hurt Varric’s heart. “How did you deal with everything that went down in Kirkwall?"

He shrugged. Most days, thinking about Blondie hurt more than it helped, but Varric was nothing if not stubborn, and too damn old and tired to give into fugues. "Oh, you know. Drank enough ale at the Hanged Man for Corff to retire early," he said, trying for levity. It fell as flat as the Hangman’s worst, but Isera didn’t seem to notice; her gaze was far off, lost somewhere beyond the fitful flames of his fire. "If there's some trick to letting go, I’d like to know it myself. Not much you can do except pick yourself up and keep going.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Thanks, Varric.”

He hesitated. Experience reminded him how every time he tried to mother Hawke or Fenris, there’d be some cutting remark or challenging smirk, but he couldn’t stop himself from adding on, “Get some rest, Ashes. You look like you need it." Despite the other similarities to Hawke, Isera didn’t seem inclined to disagree. As she trudged away, shoulders hunched against the wind, Varric closed his notebook and sighed, tilting his head up.

Soon, if the snow clouds rolled away, stars would wink down at him, bright and beckoning above the orange light of his fire. Bartrand hadn’t ever liked them, had always braced himself against venturing out under the big, open sky, but Varric didn’t mind feeling small. He still hated the outdoors and preferred his cities nice and orderly and his beds warm and soft, thank you very much. Waltzing around outdoors, making camp wherever, eating whatever poor critter Cassandra wrestled into the cauldron— that was all for younger men without a decade of good food and bad ale perched over his aging abs.

But still, the stars almost made up for being dragged into this damn mess to begin with. A whole empty sky, all that empty space between the moons just begging to be filled with stories? Writing couldn’t ask for a better invitation.

Maybe somewhere up there, in that vast darkness, some worlds weren’t hellbent on destroying themselves, and it didn’t fall to people like Hawke and Isera to save them. It was a little disheartening that it always seemed to be his friends— or people who became his friends— that got stuck holding the weight when things went to shit. And for all that she denied it— for all they _both_ denied it— they took on the burdens of those around them. And Maker fucking pardon him but their shoulders were just too damn small to hold all of Thedas alone.

_“It’s a survival thing.” Hawke grinned at him over the rim of a tankard, the red stripe across her nose winking in between swigs of Corff’s best. Or worst, depending who you asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed that you’re the first out of the fire… unless there’s someone who needs you?”_

_“You’re full of shit, Hawke,” he grumbled, draining his own. “I’m a selfish bastard_ _and you need to play your damn hand.”_

 _Hawke laughed, bright and loud against the grunge of the Hanged Man. “Bullshit, Varric,” she said, flipping some winning cards toward him. To her left, Carver groaned like a dying bronto and threw his own hand down. “You_ like _being needed,” she insisted, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “You might say you’re as selfish as ‘Bela but all it takes is someone batting their lashes at you—”_

_“Yep.” Isabela smirked at him, waggling her fingers from over the shoulder of an uncomfortable-looking Sebastian. She gathered the cards in front of them, shuffling with thin, deft fingers. “Hawke’s right. You want to mark up the world.”_

_Hawke signaled for a new round and gestured at Isabela to deal already. “In more than just ink and bad romances, too.” She studied her hand, tells they’d long stopped calling her on all over her face. “You’ll admit it eventually.”_

_“Are we gonna take your coin or debate my damn supposed life goals, here?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably as she grinned at him._

Varric opened his notebook and stared at the half-assed letter he’d begun to Hawke about coming home to Kirkwall, sighed deeply, and balled it up to throw. It landed squarely in the embers, bursting into bright yellow flames as it curled in on itself and he’d almost swear that, somewhere across the Waking Sea, he could hear a kaddis-streaked best friend laughing her Fereldan ass off at him.

***

By the time he’d escaped the crowd in the Chantry, Isera was nowhere in sight. More, there weren’t even concerned glances to indicate a direction he could look. Cullen swore under his breath, raking one hand through his hair. “Did you see the Herald?” he demanded of Threnn as she studied the requisition lists. “Did she come this way?”

“Sure,” Threnn agreed distractedly, waving a hand at him. If the quartermaster even realized who was speaking to her, Cullen would be surprised: she never looked up from the stack of reports she was thumbing through. “Headed towards her cabin, I think.”

Finally, a lead. Slipping only a little on the ice, Cullen kept one hand on the wall as he walked, trying to slow his breathing. He had to remain calm. Not only for himself, but for the Herald, when he found her. And Josephine would be upset enough that he’d run out of dinner; he didn’t need to compound that by sprinting through Haven as if a horde of darkspawn snapped at his heels.

Even if everything in him wanted to.

“Curly?” Varric sounded surprised as Cullen rounded the corner. He narrowed his eyes and for a moment, Cullen worried that his intent was plain on his face. Varric took his time examining Cullen from head to toe before crossing his arms over his chest in challenge, however subtle. “Take it you're looking for Her Heraldness. Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure tall, blond, and Templar is what she needs right now?”

The honest answer was out of Cullen's mouth before he could think too hard about it. “No,” he said, dropping his voice as a scout passed, giving them a curious look. “No. A Templar is probably the last thing she needs, but she needs _someone._ ”

Varric nodded, poking at his fire with shadows on his face. “She’s good people,” he said finally. “Been a while since I saw a leader who cares like her.” A puff of sparks rose as a log shifted, and when Varric sat back and looked at him, Cullen felt like a student being tested somehow “But I was there when that hut burned. It hurt her. Still does.”

Cullen had never heard that dark tone of voice from Varric before. His dim recollections of seeing him in Kirkwall with the Champion were of a jovial, laughing man who strolled the streets of Hightown with a grin and a tall tale for anyone who would listen. While Cullen hadn’t gone to the Hanged Man more than once or twice in his tenure there, plenty of other Templars had found themselves at a table with Hawke and Tethras and their mismatched group of friends. The picture they painted of those nights had left an impression of Varric that never quite dissipated, even after the destruction of the Chantry when no one had a smile to spare.

The Varric judging him across a crackling fire was crag-faced, looked tired in every sense of the word, and the only words he seemed to have for Cullen were cold, bitter, and truth-sharp.

“I—” Cullen stuttered, awareness crashing over him that so far, his only plan had been a vague need to somehow make sure Isera wasn’t— what? Crying? Upset? Even after his long years as a Templar, Cullen knew what his reaction would have been to a group of recruits setting mages on fire, apostates or no. Upset would have been the _mildest_ word for his feelings.

And Isera had proven time and again that she wasn’t a child to be coddled or wrapped in gauze. So what was he really hoping to accomplish? Maker help him but he didn’t exactly know. All he could think was that if he’d been nursing those fresh wounds, he wouldn’t want to be alone.

“Shit,” Varric said, a ghost of his normal smile flickering into life for a moment. “I won’t stop you. But don’t go running down there like someone set your furs on fire.”

Cullen nodded at him and set off down the stairs. Despite the chill in the wind, there was no snowfall tonight, and as he walked, he caught himself inspecting the dozens of boot prints in front of him to find which belong to the Herald. It was silly and well he knew it, but it was surprising that he couldn’t tell by glance alone. Isera Lavellan stuck out in a crowd, with her silver-white hair and sun-kissed skin; everything about her seemed to shine, to attract attention. Jarring then, somehow, to realize that no matter how her metaphorical footsteps shook the world, they were as mundane as any other resident of Haven in reality.

 _There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere_ , he thought, rounding the corner and stumbling to a halt.

Isera’s door swayed in the gusts of wind buffeting the village, knocking open with a soft click that had Cullen’s breath catching in his throat. With so much of her out on public display, the Herald guarded her privacy as best she could, making sure the door to her quarters was shut tight when her duties for the day were over. Seeing it left open to the cold and any curious villager wandering by was alarming, but the so-carefully-unconcerned look Charter shot him was a wealth of information in itself: Leliana’s people took care of theirs and had stood a silent, subtle guard. Cullen nodded an acknowledgement and stepped up to the door, rapping softly. “Herald?”

From inside, the only sound was a wet-sounding sniffle and he pushed against the door. Something registered against his fading Templar senses as magic grabbed at him and clung, sticky as spider silk, flaming a silent warning against his skin. The further in he tried to step, the hotter the spell became, burning against his senses as it tightened around him— and his heart pounded as he realized there wasn’t enough lyrium left in his blood to dispel it.

For half an instant, Cullen regretted his insane plan to stop using the drug. Sure, his intention and reasoning was sound but— no. _No._ He was _not_ going to panic. Being touched with magic would _not_ be the end of him, not from someone who had earned a little trust. He survived Kinloch, he survived Kirkwall, and a simple warding spell— he finally recognized the spell school, though it was different than anything he’d felt from a Circle-trained mage before— was no threat to him.

Cullen forced a deep breath into his lungs, calming himself as Isera murmured something and the spell released him with a silent pop. The temptation to stagger right back out of the cabin to safety was enough to make his hands tremble, but, if he was honest, his legs felt so unsteady that he wasn’t sure the Chantry was a reasonable goal at the moment anyway.

“Herald?” Two steps forward brought him past the threshold and, despite the shiver of unease still cold against his spine, he peeked around the door.

Isera’s back was to the wall just beside the entrance, bowed over until a curtain of wind-blown silver curls hid her face from him. Pressed tightly between trembling knees was a bucket, mercifully empty, and her hands clenched and unclenched in the split-skirt of the robes she wore. The temptation to drop to a knee and meet her on her level was almost enough to overcome his sense of decorum— oh, who was he fooling? Any formality or sense of titles had been left to hang in the cold Frostback wind when he’d blown out of the war room like a tempest looking for a convenient coastline.

Still, it was only polite that he murmur a quiet, “My lady?” even though she was aware of his presence.

Isera gave no answer, but her body seemed to pull in on itself more.

With a sigh, Cullen took that knee after all and lowered his head until he caught her eye and slowly, carefully laid his hand over one of hers. _I’m here_ , the gesture said, a quiet offer of comfort and sympathy. Isera shuddered, her fingers curling around his, warm and rougher than he’d have thought. Everything about elves spoke of delicacy and grace, with long limbs and slender builds, and somehow that translated to _soft_ in his head. But the pads of Isera’s fingers were calloused, not unlike his own, and there was something… comforting in that.

A half-smile ghosted across his mouth when he thought of his younger self’s misconceptions about the Dalish, helped right along by a certain dwarven author who liked to take the piss out of arrogant, young Templars once in a while. If such things as Dalish queens had existed, Isera had the bearing of one, but her hands marked her as much a worker as he. And work she had: Cullen had no misconception that without the woman slowly inching her way towards him, the mages and Templars would still be tearing Redcliffe to shreds.

“Here,” he said, voice loud in the silence. “Let’s get you on your feet.”

She rose, unsteady enough that he wrapped an arm around her middle to help her the few steps to the bed. “I shouldn’t have departed so abrptly,” Isera said, scrubbing at her face. “Josephine is probably going to have me do enough paperwork to choke a dragon to make up for it.” If it weren’t for the redness of her eyes, he might have believed the even tone in her voice. Either way—

“Do not,” he replied, “apologize for having a heart in this matter.” Her hand was still ensconced in his, and he squeezed tentatively, hoping to reassure. Words had never been a strong suit of his— he'd had ample proof with his many fumbling banters with the mage who would go on to save Ferelden, and more with the mage who tried her damnedest to save Kirkwall. But something— the misery on her face, or the nausea that had driven her from dinner, or the fact that in some way, he understood her horror on a visceral level— compelled him to try.

“Hard duties do not mean we don’t feel. If anything, we feel all the stronger _because_ our duties are hard. There is no simplicity for us to retreat into, and so we must confront our actions— and their repercussions.” He paused, an uncomfortable truth burning his throat. “That is… something I am learning as well.”

Isera was quiet for a moment before her face screwed up into a grimace. “They were just trying to _survive._ ” He chuffed her hand between his and felt his heart twist when a mostly-silent sob shuddered through her. “They didn’t attack, they stole some _food_. That was their crime.” A laugh as dark as any he’d ever heard bubbled up from her, and her head dropped even further. “Well, that and daring to be filthy mages.”

“I know,” he murmured, throat tight and aching as if he were the one crying.

“Does your Maker hate us so much?” Isera asked bitterly, and for a moment, Cullen felt as though years had rippled, bringing his past self— still clanking through the halls of Kinloch Hold in Templar plate— and his current together. He’d asked Ser Greagoir the same question once, after a Harrowing went wrong and the body of a former apprentice lay at their feet. So much potential wasted, so much fear in the mages’ eyes after that. For once, Greagoir had shown a hint of emotion, clapping Cullen’s shoulder briefly before walking away, but hadn’t answered.

He still didn’t have an answer, but he’d seen the sort of person Isera was, had seen the magic and the mercy that tempered her and— “No,” he found himself saying, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. It was forward, something he’d have reprimanded another soldier for, but Cullen wasn’t the Commander, and Isera wasn’t the Herald right then. In that moment, separated from their roles and away from prying eyes, they were simply people floundering under a world of hurt. “I don’t think He does.”

Isera didn’t pull away from his touch, and despite the professional half of his mind telling him to back away, the rest of him was curious just how well her cheek might fit in his palm. Wind whistled through the cracks of the small cabin, a background to the respective ghosts they wrestled with, and for half an instant, Cullen could imagine just how easy it would be to—

“I won’t break, Commander,” she said, a touch of her usual dry humor wound through the words. Confused, Cullen blinked before looking down and seeing he still held her hand. “And, unless you plan on holding the mark for ransom, I may eventually need my hand back.”

A quiet laugh tumbled from his lips before he could stop it, and with a sigh and a pop of his neck, he settled back against the wall, bracing his elbows on his knees. Where had that split-second of desire come from? Years had passed since the last time such unprofessional thoughts had surfaced and he wasn’t sure what in Isera drew them out. But there was something in the air, thin and gossamer, delicate as Serault glass, and… it didn’t feel like he was the only one realizing it, given how she tilted her head at him and drew her knees up against her chest.

“Would you mind staying a bit?” The question was quiet, her voice still a little ragged, but the tremble and misery seemed to have softened some, and that was a victory in itself. “If I were home, I’d have to pry my brother from my side.” A faint smile curved her mouth, equal parts sorrow and joy. “Strange how… how you come to miss something so annoying. Ethelan has this infuriating way of making the smallest thing an epic misfortune, and the worst tragedy nothing more than a bad story.”

“Older than you, is he?” Cullen asked, smiling down at his hands. “Older siblings are like that. I think it comes from having all that attention before having to share it.”

“Do you have siblings, Commander?” Isera asked, resting her chin on her knee. “You speak from experience?”

He nodded. “Three. One older, a sister.” As if summoned by her mention, Mia’s voice rang through his memory. The words blurred together like chalk in the rain, the product of a dozen or more childhood lectures and arguments, but the tone— that half-exasperated, tender tone that only older siblings had mastered— was true and sweet. “Mia.”

“So you’re used to women running your life, then,” Isera teased, and the sound was so unlike the broken-open crying he’d heard from the other side of the door, Cullen could have jumped to his feet and sung a verse of the Chant in thanks. If he hadn’t been exhausted, anyway. He chuckled out an agreement, listening to her voice— low and warm, that subtle Dalish accent strung through like accenting beads— wash over him.

***

“My lady?”

Isera flung an arm over her eyes, growling at the too-bright sunlight. “Go ‘way.” She had a moment of silence, where she hoped the voice had been a dream, but it came again, shattering that illusion despite being soft and hesitant.

“My lady, Mother Giselle wanted a moment of your time before you set off.”

Bleary, Isera rose up on her elbows and glared at the Chantry sister in her doorway. Between the headache, the sour stomach still rolling with nausea, and the fact that someone had apparently poured half the Hissing Wastes into her eyes while she slept, a good mood was nowhere in sight. Still, that wasn’t the girl’s fault. She'd only been sent on an errand and dealing with a grumpy Herald probably wasn't in her range of talents. 

“I will get to the good Mother when I have the chance,” Isera assured her. She'd have tried for a smile, but Ethelan's laughter echoed through her mind, a thousand different memories chasing each other.  _If that's a smile_ , he'd say every morning, _then what do you frighten off spirits in the Fade with?_ First light always came too early in a Dalish camp, and her family had simply gotten used to the grumbles.

The knots in Isera's shoulders eased as the girl backed out of the door, closing it with a click and leaving her to lay back and take stock for the day ahead. The throbbing in her head fought with her stomach, but those were easily dispelled with a potion and a little company. That could always come later— Cassandra and Varric snapping at each other as they packed for Val Royeaux would either make her smile or give her someone to yell at. Either way, she'd be able to focus past the surface discomfort.

She took a deep breath and went a little further, looking for the hollow ache in her heart where she'd carried the memory of the murdered mages. The whole way back from Redcliffe, it sat like a stone on her chest, heavy and just this side of crushing. Tentative, she brushed a finger of mana over the memory and found it— not healed, yet, not quite. But lanced, the sting of a wound washed clean. It would scar, like the shiny new claw marks on her shoulder, but healing would come and the rage that had sung through her veins in the days after their return was finally quiet. 

With a small smile, Isera turned over and opened her eyes, seeking what she knew wasn’t there.

It had been… kind of him to come check on her. If you’d told her that after a horrific crime committed by former Templars, comfort would come from yet another former Templar, she’d call you delusional. But his presence _had_ been comforting, a surprisingly-pleasant diversion that allowed her bruised heart to withdraw and grieve. Listening to the rumble of his laugh, seeing the man beneath the Commander as he’d spoken of his siblings, of life on a rural Ferelden farm, even of what had driven him into the arms of the Chantry…

Something had changed. Whether it was good or bad had yet to be seen.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeey, guys, look, i'm not dead! and ethelan (first mentioned in Chapter 1 and first seen in Chapter 5 and 12 of Tumblr Prompts) gets a little cameo. (I promise, he will show up eventually) 
> 
> as always, if you have commentary or suggestions or requests, you know where the comment box is and i love hearing from you guys. And if you're on tumblr, feel free to stop by and say hi!


End file.
